


Don't Get Strung Out By the Way I Look

by jmcbks



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, canon typical isms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 18:34:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17431301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmcbks/pseuds/jmcbks
Summary: It's harder than Ray expected to find a properly sized corset.Originally posted at LiveJournal in 2010 to the we_pimpin community.  Set in the same AU as a couple other works by me in with quant!Brad and lawyer!Ray.  Based on the actors in the miniseries.





	Don't Get Strung Out By the Way I Look

Brad Colbert is a cool, guarded bastard, or so people say, which is how he acquired the Iceman moniker. Ray has to wonder about the mental capacity of those "people" and their lack of deductive reasoning and observation skills, because the Iceman is pretty transparent to his Ray-Ray.

Brad's never verbose, which is a good fucking thing since Ray has that covered in their relationship, but the quieter he gets, the more engaged he is. And when he's problem-solving or troubleshooting, the right side of his mouth lifts in an almost-smile that's really a sneer at the sheer incompetence of his colleagues. (Brad wears that expression a lot when dealing with the useless code written by the retarded MIT subordinate HR hired against his recommendation and then assigned to his working group.)

When Tim Curry and his ridiculously red lips appear on the screen at the theater - to the cheers of the crowd who knew the dialogue by heart - Brad's hand tightens briefly on Ray's neck then relaxes. But Ray is one acute motherfucker when it comes to his Bradley, so he spends the next few days pondering: is Brad's kink drag? (He doesn't think so, since they've been to a couple of drag bars, which hadn't seemed to affect him.) Is it a thing for Tim Curry? Or the black lingerie?

After some careful probing (STFU, Ray's brilliant at getting information out of reluctant witnesses and Brad's nowhere near that reticent with Ray, especially when he's getting his dick sucked), Ray's got a plan.

Ray's plan involves recon of Brad's porn to make sure he hasn't misdiagnosed the whole situation - because Ray's not putting on lipstick or garters unless there's an orgasm involved, and presenting himself as Dr Frank-N-Furter only to get a blank stare or snicker from Brad would not end well. That confirmation - which is more difficult than Ray expects because Brad is a suspicious bastard who password protects everyfuckingthing - is followed by the acquisition of Ray-sized Dr Frank-N-Furter accoutrements.

It's harder than Ray expects to find a properly sized corset. He goes to three lingerie stores and is looked at like a sex offender by the salesladies. Which, dude, he's not exactly a hulk, surely he'd fit in a large women's corset, but they all wig out once he mentions he is looking for playwear for himself rather than his girlfriend. Fucking vanilla homophobes. Finally he winds up going to a toy store that is much more customer service oriented.

The patent leather stiletto heels are easier: Nordstrom's ladies shoe department doesn't even hesitate when he plants his ass on the bench; instead they offer him those freaky footie things so he can try on the shoes. Which are fucking sexy just sitting in the box. Ray is going to be sex on legs in this outfit - he's going to absolutely rock Brad's world as Frank. The Nordstrom's shoe lady even walks him over to the hosiery section and gets him started with the garters and stockings. She's a shopping rockstar, and he would totally hit that if he wasn't utterly whipped by his Bradley.

Ray doesn't think of himself as bisexual, because that word is just weird and wrong, because it sounds like a guy with two dicks. (Hmm, two dicks, Ray could do something with that...) And he's not pansexual or omnisexual, because Ray draws the line at sexcapades with anything other than adults capable of consenting to whatever kinky shit might be going on in the bedroom...or wherever else. Ray is just able to admire a beautiful ass on anyone, male or female, and cock-sucking lips are to be treasured whether or not they are accompanied by facial hair. Having said that, he looks but doesn't touch now, because who needs anyone else when they've got a Viking sex god at home. Seriously, the attention to detail and determination to get things right that make Brad such a brilliant fucker at work also make him brilliant at fucking and other sexual activities.

Ray appreciates women. He loves women: the way they think, they way they look, the way they roll their eyes at his bullshit but still blush at his flirtation. Because Ray flirts with everyone, he's incapable of not flirting with the mailroom guy, the baristas at Starbucks, the ladies working in the Clerk of Court's office. The first women he ever loved, of course, were his Momma and Granny Arlene, who taught him that women can be both fierce and fragile things.

But as he struggles with the makeup and the stockings, he thinks that women are also: 1) goddamn crazy to wear this stuff on a daily basis, and 2) harder-working than he ever imagined. How the fuck do women get anything done with this shit caked on their faces and with underwear and footwear that either rides up, pinches or makes you hobble?

The makeup doesn't seem so bad at the MAC counter when he gets a lesson in how to apply it, along with hints about having his eyebrows done and adding fake lashes. (And jesus fuck, the brow wax hurts worse than a cockpunch, why would anyone do that regularly? Let alone get more tender parts waxed?) But it takes a couple of practice sessions while Brad's out rock-climbing at the gym to get it right. Ray kind of likes the corset: it makes him conscious of his breathing in a way that he never has been before. The shoes, sexy as they look on his feet, make him wobble, so he walks around the apartment in them a little to make sure he won't fall over during the big reveal -- again, while Brad's at the gym. The garters and satin panties, well, they feel good, alright, homes? Anyone who says they don't like the feel of satin against their dangly bits is fucking lying.

The stockings & garters are the biggest deal, which comes as a surprise to Ray, because he hasn't really thought about it until they are on and he realizes that his leg hair, which isn't that thick comparatively speaking, looks kind of dumb under the stockings. He originally plans on having them waxed along with the unibrow, but after the brows are done, Ray admits to cowardice and a low pain threshold and bolts from the "spa". Spa, fuck that, it's a fucking torture chamber. Instead, he breaks out the razor. And holy shit, how do women do this on a daily basis? He ends up with bits of toilet paper stuck to all the nicks on his legs plus a clogged bathtub drain.

Once the stockings are on, though, Ray thinks he could give Joe Namath a run for his advertising money. After lacing up the corset and spending an inordinate amount of time putting on the shiny, red lipstain (who the fuck knew there were so many terms for lipstick?), Ray slides his feet into the patent leather pumps, then totters out to the living room.

After settling on the couch, Ray realizes the arm chair will work better in terms of logistics (he can see the front door while lounging and it is comfortable for other things), plus it it is marginally more throne-like than the couch. After arranging himself across the arms of the chair, he relaxes to wait for Brad, who should be home any minute now.

Twenty minutes later, Ray is turned nearly upside down in the chair, admiring the way his legs look in the stockings and heels, when he hears the locks on the door rattle and jolts out of the chair onto the floor. Before he can right himself, Brad walks in and stops dead. Fuck, Ray meant to be sitting with one leg slung over the chair's arm, one hand on the pearls and the other on his dick. Still, he'll work with what he has; he shuffles to his feet and says in a much less suggestive voice than originally planned, "How was your day, dear?"

Brad's eyes do a slow scan of Ray from head to toe, then skip back up to his red, red lips. His Adam's apple bobs and his mouth opens but nothing comes out, and for a moment Ray is frozen. Then he gets the plan back on track: the button on the remote is pushed and he grabs Brad's hand, dragging him to the chair and pushing him down. Brad doesn't resist; in fact, he seems totally gobsmacked, and his eyes keep skipping from Ray's lips to the corset to the high, high heels on Ray's feet. Ray has just enough time to get back to the middle of the room and into position, back to Brad but looking over his shoulder flirtatiously, hands on hips and hip cocked, when the lyrics begin and Ray starts to sing along:

_How d'you do, I see you've met my faithful handyman_  
He's just a little brought down because when you knocked  
He thought you were the candyman.  
Don't get strung out by the way that I look,  
Don't judge a book by its cover  
I'm not much of a man by the light of day,  
But by night I'm one hell of a lover

Ray hasn't really planned what to do next beyond a little bit of strut and hip shaking to go with the singing, but Brad's fascinated gaze doesn't seem to find anything lacking. Ray's not even sure Brad realizes he's stroking himself through his gym pants, it seems uninhibited and almost unconscious, which he takes as a kudo for his performance. As Brad and Janet ask to use the phone, Ray shakes his ass a little too enthusiastically and wobbles closer to Brad than he intends; Brad takes the opportunity to yank Ray into the chair with him. Ray keeps going: he's seen and received his own fair number of lap dances, so he puts that knowledge to good use, shimmying and grinding above Brad, while singing about satanic mechanics and Transexual, Transylvania. Brad's eyes just stay fixed on his mouth, and his hands wander a little, alternately grasping satin-covered flesh and rubbing down to bare skin and then nylon covered thigh before sliding back to Ray's hips.

Brad appears to decide the performance is over when Ray purses his lips and puffs out the last two syllables of "anticipation" after Dr Frank-N-Furter's pause. His mouth crashes onto Ray's and his wandering hands finally edge around to the front of Ray's satin panties to stroke and mold the fabric to his dick, which is already half-hard already but surges to full hardness in a rush. Abandoning his "dance", Ray drops down fully onto Brad's lap, pressing his pelvis to Brad.

In a rush to touch flesh after thinking about Brad all afternoon and being so conscious of his own body in the unfamiliar clothes, Ray tugs the sweatpants and tidy whiteys Brad's wearing down his thighs, then resettles on Brad's lap.

Their kiss goes on forever, lewd and obscene, a forecast of what the rest of their bodies want to do together. Tearing his mouth away, Brad gasps, "Jesus christ, Ray - I, god, that feels…" and he stutters to a halt.

Ray takes advantage of the separation of their mouths to fumble Brad's tee over his head, then leans back in to lick a stripe up Brad's neck, following it with a bite to the edge of his jaw and another to his collarbone. He tastes of healthy sweat, Ivory soap, and the fabric softener they keep in the utility cabinet under the sink. Mmmm.

"Fuck, your mouth, Ray." Brad leans into Ray and looks dazed, even as his hands keep stroking. Ray eases back, kissing, biting and mouthing down Brad's chest, leaving red smudges behind, then edges off Brad's lap entirely. He has to bat at Brad's hands to get loose.

"What? Wait," Brad whines, then stops when Ray simply drops to his knees in front of the chair. "Your mouth, Ray." Reaching out, Brad slides his fingers in, fucking Ray's open mouth; his eyes are glued to the sight. Ray moans, which jolts Brad's eyes up to his. Keeping his eyes locked on Brad’s, Ray sucks on the fingers as he pushes Brad's pants further down so he can kick free of them. Fingers slide out of Ray's mouth one last time, then his hand is on Ray's cheek, an unnecessary guide downward.

Pale, almost invisible body hair darkens to golden brown as it arrows down to Brad's groin. His penis is beautiful, which is not a word that Ray normally thinks of when he thinks of dicks. It's what Ray likes to think of as right-sized, listing a little to the left. Giving an experimental flick of his tongue to the crown, Ray then devotes himself to tracing the veins standing out. After mapping them, Ray follows with a slow stroke up to the head and then swallows as much of Brad as he can. He has to take a deep breath and tug at himself to keep from coming at the taste and feel of Brad in his mouth.

Some people may be able to give a neat blow job; Ray Person is not one of them. He's getting saliva, lipstick and pre-come everywhere. This does not distress Brad, whose hands rub down Ray's spine to the corset, then explore its boning and laces, then back up to Ray's neck and shoulders, and around to his mouth, where he fingers Ray's lips and feels himself through Ray's hollowed-out cheeks. When Brad tugs Ray up by the pearl choker, he pulls off with a lewd-sounding slurp. He hauls Ray back into his lap, where they struggle with the garters as they try to get Ray's panties off. Eventually, they just push them down enough to get his cock out so it can rub against Brad's abdomen and dick.

"Uhn, there, yes, shit, back..." As they both shift to rub at the optimal angle, they tip off the chair unto the floor. Which...works just fine. Watching Brad as he leans over him, hand stroking them both, Ray's words dry up. All the filthy things he wants to do and say to Brad are gone, and he can only grunt and whine to the rhythm of Brad's hands, then shudder as he comes. Brad drops his weight onto Ray, then covers his mouth as he rubs against Ray, coming on his belly and chest, making a bigger mess of them and possibly staining the corset.

After a few minutes, Brad shifts to Ray's side, then flops his hand up toward Ray's face to cup his cheek and rub his thumb across Ray's smeared red lips, and he sighs.

"Your mouth, Ray..."

When he has breath again, Ray announces with a filthy grin, "I've made a man with blond hair and a tan. You're good for relieving my tension, Bradley. I've got a pair of gold spandex shorts for you, too, if you're up for some more role playing."

"Only if you keep the shoes and lipstick on, Doctor."

And that is how Ray came to keep MAC Media (Satin) lipstick in the medicine chest and a pair of black & cherry patent leather Prada pumps in the closet. The panties, stockings and garters all come out to play occasionally, too, but it's the shoes and the lips that do it for Brad. And Brad, well, if he occasionally wears a pair of black - not gold - spandex lace up shorts around the apartment while being a beck & call boy, only Ray will ever know.

(When they move out to Oceanside, Brad’s mom helps them unpack and set up housekeeping. She runs across the shoes, corset and shorts as she organizes the boxes of clothes into California winter appropriate vs. New York winter appropriate. But she quickly stuffs them into a drawer and slams the drawer closed. Although “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell” has been repealed for the military, the policy works for her in this area: there are some things a mother just doesn’t want to know about her children and their partners, however much she loves them.)


End file.
